


sing for me

by bloodrunsred



Series: just a little bit broken [15]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Citadel of Ricks, Kidnapping, M/M, Memory Related, Mental Breakdown, Mind Control, Mind Rape, POV Alternating, POV Morty, POV Rick, Possessive Rick, Psychological Torture, Sad Ending, The Galactic Federation, Torture, mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-06-25 04:00:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19737880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodrunsred/pseuds/bloodrunsred
Summary: There were certain things about Rick that could be used against certain people. The Federation had always tried to turn Rick's friends against him, and have succeeded on multiple occasions; by bringing up past transgressions against them, or reminding them of the rewards in place for his capture.He had just never expected Morty to be the one singing like a canary to their tune (though he probably should have).





	sing for me

**Author's Note:**

> i've decided to, now that i've gotten decidedly more nsfw, keep my fics a mixture of non-graphic and graphic,, let me know if y'all like that!

Being captured by the Galactic Federation had never been on the table.

Rick had seen worse Ricks and Morties kidnapped and snatched away from their homes to feed information; only to end up insane or dead before the day was up. Rick had promised himself long ago that he would never let him or Morty get put in that situation, which was why he was so angry now.

It had happened in a split-second. 

He had looked away for one, single second to admire the crystal they were stealing, and the bastards had managed to get the drop on him. Or, more accurately, the drop on Morty. The little brat, with his poor attention-span and gullible fucking nature, had wandered right into their hands. And they had apparently gotten their hands on some of his tech--and, oh, he bet the Citadel was really happy with that--which gave Rick no time to grab him back.

No time at all.

He was there, and then he wasn't, and all Rick was left with was the shout torn from his throat at the sight of it all.

Morty, his eyes wide and his mouth open as though he wanted to call out for Rick, and his body bent as he was sucked through a portal only just better than the one the president owned. It wasn't one that would be able to make journeys through time, or the multiverse, but it wasn't something that would go unnoticed. If Morty knew something--and people always thought he did, even though he was an idiot--then Rick would be racing against Mercenary-Ricks _and_ the Federation to keep him alive.

Then again, most Ricks would know that Morty didn't have anything of value and, thus, end up leaving him to suffer. Rick scoffed; typical, but not unwelcome. If this was a rescue operation (and it most definitely was), the less people involved, the better. 

His fingers trembled around his flask, and he couldn't bring himself to put it down.

* * *

Morty hurt. 

His jaw was on fire, his vision cloudy as people moved overhead. He tugged at the restraints that kept him strapped to a cool surface, groaning lowly as his head was moved side-to-side. There were voices overheard, ones that spoke in both English and garbled languages that Morty could never understand, not in a million years. Bands were clasped tightly to his head, pressing his curls into his head, and then Morty was drifting.

He was lost, in a haze of memories that he couldn't touch, lost in a smoke that left him feeling strangely exposed. His eyes stayed open--and he could see himself. Like he was forced from his own body, into a separate world, he could see the way his back arched on the table, and his eyes remained cloudy and open. He looked like a blind man, his eyes darting like he was looking for something, but remaining empty.

Memories strayed from their path of swirling blues, greens, and yellows, and danced before him. There was no feeling associated with them, nothing to fill the void he had been left with, so he smiled. It didn't feel right, with the pictures that played across his mind, before his body (that felt lighter than air, and not quite right),but he didn't stop.

There was no reason too.

He wasn't hurting anymore; there were no more cruel hands, or punches to keep him subdued. He wasn't scared, anymore--he couldn't be, not here, in this world of bright lights and drifting colours--and he felt something akin to peace. He loved it and hated it.

It felt unnatural and wrong, and oh-so perfect that he could cry. 

And it was ripped away.

Everything hurt once more; his limbs were being prodded, and he could feel, and remember the fact that he was splayed out on a cool, metal table like a bug. He was strapped down by his wrists and ankles, a stiff band around his neck keeping him from moving his head. The memories were gone like smoke in the wind, like feathers on a stream, and he screamed, pulling at his restraints.

Almost immediately, someone placed two cool hands on his head; one over his mouth, and one laying gently against his forehead. It soothed him for reasons he didn't know how to explore, and he tried to let the motherly touch calm him down. Even just a little.

_You wouldn't know what motherly meant if it threw a wine bottle at your head-_

It didn't work properly, but he could hear them better now, along with the vindictive voice in his head that sounds too much like Rick for comfort. Before, when the aliens above him sounded like they were underwater, their words had no meaning. And, while he had been on what had felt like an insane acid trip (clinking vials, dirty needles, pain, pain, _pain_ ), he hadn't been able to hear them at all.

Now, though...

_"-looked through his mind--memory erased-"_

_"-fucking disgusting, and to his own grandson too--we should just get him put in a foster-care system on Nurruna-"_

There was rustling and muttered curses before the words became distinguishable as English once more. He strained his ears to listen, the feelings and memories of just moments ago blurring his vision and deafening him. He felt exposed. Unsafe. Like his deepest, darkest secrets had been displayed to the world.

_"-was still helping a criminal! Get information, and if he's still alive then you can ship him off somewhere. Just let me finish my experiment-"_

_"Xe's right, it's our only chance-"_

_"This is experimental--he's still a child, we can't put him through this, for what? Someone hurting him just as badly as he hurts those we take into our system? Ple-"_

_"The Federation doesn't accept those who don't know when to make sacrifices-"_ (The whirring of a gun, a warning in the tone, and Morty flinched instinctively) _"-we will conduct the experiment."_

It was quiet.

Then there was something cool and metal pressed against his head, covering his eyes. He craned his neck, trying to get away even as he was pushed down again, and again, and again. The hands were gentler, this time, and he tried not to think about what that might be. Something sharp pushed through his hair until he could almost feel it pressing against his brain; he would have screamed, but his breath was stolen by something else.

_Rick._

Rick was above him, eyes wide and manic, mouth open and seeking in a way that felt terribly familiar, and Morty tried to understand. "Rick," he said desperately, his voice slow and slurred, even to his own ears. "You have to--please, Rick, hurry! I want to go home, please-"

There was something pressing down on his hips, and he looked down--wait, he couldn't do that before--to see Rick's hands, reaching for his zipper, kneading his flesh through his jeans. There was nothing pleasant about the touch, nothing kind, or soothing. It _hurt,_ and he felt his eyes stinging even quicker than usual. He didn't understand--wasn't Rick going to help him? Why was he doing this?

He heard things, echoing in his ears against metal, zippers being unzipped, clothing being removed, and he tried to understand. He wasn't a genius, he wasn't Rick, and he was so, so scared. It was one thing to happen in his bedroom, in hotels, in filthy alien bathrooms that made Morty feel sick in a million different ways (who was he kidding? He shouldn't be scared, or surprised by now, Rick made him do _it_ everywhere), but this wasn't safe. Rick was never safe, but Morty had been hit by strangers, hurt by people who wanted to see him dead, and this was pushing him over the edge.

He whined, squirming as much as he could with his wrists bound (even though Rick should have untied, would have untied him just to feel Morty clawing at his back in pain), a sob breaking through every once in a while.

Something had happened while Morty was thinking, like someone had hit fast-forward on a remote, and there was a deep, unbearable agony stretching through his insides, cramps tearing through his stomach.

He screamed.

He knew what he wanted--he wanted Rick to go, he wanted his Mom, he wanted someone to help him, save him, please--and he knew what he didn't want (hands on him, mouth on him).

No-one ever came.

* * *

Rick had finally fucking cracked it.

He had known where the Federation's main base was for a long time, now; but they had sub-ships and territory on hundreds of planets in the general vicinity of where Morty had been snatched. Since they would have wanted to buy themselves some more time, they wouldn't have gone to some of the more immediate or obvious choices; ruling out two drifting ships, and five-or-so planets.

They would have probably tried to get as close to other ships as they could for back-up, based on their shared past experiences; he ruled out lone, obvious ships and planets without moons and defence systems. The mother-base was far too obvious, so that got scratched off as well, along with the ones in its general area. Then he just had to rule out hospital ships, planets with staunch child-abuse laws, and places with enough security to adequately hold an associate of Rick Sanchez.

(Because no-one knew that Morty was an idiot, it was the best kept secret in the whole galaxy--Rick didn't run with fools, and everyone knew it.)

They would be near a country that would have a large system in place for children; the Federation fancied themselves to be good guys, and would happily dump the kid in the foster-care system of a random planet over killing him.

Not that they would exactly hesitate to do that either.

Nurruna was a small, purple planet, that took in a large number of refugees and had large children centres for abused youth. It neighboured a Federation ship that met the requirements Rick had set in place, and he readied himself to go into battle. He was used to fighting quick and dirty, and he wasn't used to giving a fuck about who he was fighting for in the long run. 

He didn't want to get used to it.

He didn't need Morty (he couldn't), he didn't care about Morty (he couldn't), and he didn't want him (he shouldn't), but he would be damned if he died on him.

He'd be damned to a Hell he didn't believe in, by a God that was bought by a child's blood and puppy-dog eyes. He cursed himself as he strapped his guns to his legs, dropping homemade bombs into his pockets. 

"I'm--I'm coming," his tongue curled around the word baby, but he couldn't form the syllables. Trying to force it made his heart hurt, and his head spin, so he didn't. "I'm coming, Morty."

* * *

Morty would do whatever it took to get Rick off him. He was bleeding, and bruised, and broken, and it didn't _stop._

He had lost count of how many times Rick had fucked into him like he wasn't worth being gentle, how many times he had begged for him to stop, only to be shoved down into the table and bitten until he screamed, or hit until his vision blurred. Voices spoke from around him but, this time, he couldn't tell if they were his own imagination, or if they were real people who could help him.

_"I can't watch this-"_

"If you tell them everything, Morty," Rick said, smiling horrifically from above him, "if you tell them everything you know, they can make it stop. Don't you want that? Don't you want help?"

The lack of a stutter might have been strange, if Morty weren't choking, and gasping, and ~~dying~~ hurting. He nodded, frantically, turning his voice to talk to the people that might not have been there at all. 

"Please!" he screamed. "Please!"

"They don't believe you, Morty," Rick said, licking a long stripe up Morty's neck. His breath was tinged with alcohol, and Morty gagged on the fumes, trying to breathe air that wouldn't have him throwing up on himself (again). "Prove it, baby."

_"Security breach! Security breach! All Federation agents are to-"_

* * *

At the end of the day, Federation bitches were easy to take down. They were dumb enough for Rick to run mental circles around, and they weren't exactly hard to out-manoeuvre.

Morty on the other hand...

Morty had been in a lab full of experimental tech and tools. Some kind of illusion mind-fuckery shit that had Rick taking a mental double-take.

"Sanchez," an alien rasped from the corner of the room, hands pressing against his gut. Rick's parasite--specifically designed not to target people with genetic makeup similar to his, of course--had made it further than he had thought. A smile warped Rick's face, at the thought of the bastard being eaten alive from the inside out- "You're a sick bastard for what you did to him, you know that-"

The smile dropped, and a trigger was pulled, before Rick was rushing to Morty's side.

(A body left behind him.)

"No!" Morty screamed, twisting away from Rick's seeking hands, his voice raw-sounding, and his throat almost definitely bleeding. "No! D-don't hurt me--don't touch me! Mom, mommy, help me, help me please!" He kept begging, broken sobs punctuating his every word as he begged for people that weren't there. Rick couldn't blame the brat for wanting his mother, however lax the woman was with her duties, and only started to hush the boy.

It didn't matter that he should be crying for Rick to help him. That didn't matter right now, _it didn't._ What mattered was that Morty needed help. Emotions warred for dominance in Rick's stomach, twisting and turning alongside each other. 

_Worry, possession, anger, and something that tasted a little like fear._

"Morty," Rick said, his hands still pressing down on Morty's stomach and shoulder. "It's me, Morty, it's grandpa. Grandpa Rick. I've got you, and you're okay. You're okay now, just calm down."

Morty didn't stop or calm down. If anything, he got even more upset, his little chest heaving in a desperate attempt to keep oxygen in his lungs, and his pupils becoming pinpricks as he lost the ability to see things rationally, the way Rick saw them. The way they were.

"No, no, no, no..." Morty whimpered, his eyes glassy and confused as he stared up at Rick. "No, please--please, it hurts, I don't want--Rick, please don't make me. Please, I don't want you to, I don't-- _please._ "

Rick stiffened as Morty continued to plead. Why was he begging for him to stop? Why Rick, when the Federation had been the ones torturing him? The ball dropped as Morty choked on his own words, and the desperate way he was trying to fling himself from Rick's grasp suddenly made a lot more sense, and had a lot more meaning. It wasn't just the Galactic Federation that Morty was trying to get away from. It was _him,_ in a way that was so familiar it burned in his brain.

Rick had to give it to the bastards; it was a decent plan. Rummage through the kid's brain, find a few little tidbits that made betrayal seem like the better option. That made giving up Rick look like a better option. If Morty stopped trying to defend Rick, and was trying to run instead... they could offer him what he wanted in exchange for his cooperation, for his information.

They had probably underestimated how much of a spastic Morty could be when he worked himself into a tizzy, or Rick had gotten to them before much could go down. God, he fucking hated this place, he thought, letting his eyes linger on torture-tools and bloodied cloths.

"I promise!" Morty sobbed, tremors wracking his thin frame. "Please, please, I don't--I don't know anything, please! Help me! Please, I swear!"

Morty wasn't betraying Rick on purpose. He wasn't, but Rick still wanted to make him shut up--he never hurt him that badly that he needed to scream the way he was now, eyes wide even without the band covering them--glassy in a way that helped him realise that, while the shoddy machine had started this all, it only fostered something real--and body curled in on itself like he was dying.

With the sounds he was making, he might as well have been.

 _This is your fault,_ the voice in his head whispered, as he took another step back and tried to process whatever this was. _You made him a target._

He brought his flask to his lips, his hand quivering like a leaf in the breeze. He could fix this. How could he fucking fix this?

He eyed the technology and devices around him, and made a choice. He pressed a kiss to Morty's head, the clammy skin screwed up in a pain and fear that was entirely psychological. Their shitty devices might fuck him up forever, but what choice did he have?

 _Stop raping him,_ the voice sneered, _kill yourself._

But that never was an option, was it? No matter how many times Rick held a gun to his head, no matter how many times he put himself in danger, he never died. He kept living, with no hope for a happy ending, no bullshit to make it worth it. 

But he had Morty. And Morty could be his unhappy ending, his reason for being a piece of shit, as long as he got to make sure the kid never got an ending without Rick defining it. Morty was his pet, his dumb little bird that sung to whatever beat he chose, and flapped his wings when Rick closed his jaw around his little body. Rick owned Morty, a fact that made it easier to modify the half-baked memory-gun, and pull the trigger.

**Author's Note:**

> heyo, please comment and leave a kudos for me! i haven't had it great recently, so it would be nice to wake up to your thoughts!
> 
> your comments on my last work really helped me out, thanks! it also occurred to me - a lot of people like the federation would have seen morty at his best. having the idea to use the anti-gravity shoes in the pilot instantly comes to mind, along with him shooting down soldiers with surprising accuracy. he's less of a threat than they realise, and more of a threat than he knows.


End file.
